Winter Widow One Shots

Wakanda

*Apologies if you read this before, I write basic ideas on my phone notes late at night and then edit and put in more details on my computer when I am more awake. I guess I hit Publish before this one was fully edited. So sorry about that!*

She stepped off the sleek obsidian jet into the cool, shaded grandeur of the Wakandan palace. The air was crisp, humming faintly with the quiet energy of vibranium technology running through the palace walls. Marble floors reflect her boots, detailed carvings of panthers and old kings stretch high into the vaulted ceilings.

T'Challa waited at the base of the stairs, hands clasped neatly behind his back. A small smile touching his lips. He wore black robes with intricate embroidered details to indicate his position as King.

"Natasha Romanoff," He said, voice warm and friendly. "it is good to see you again."

"It's good to see you too, T'Challa." She smiled, and stepped closer, her movements graceful but tired, flights and safe houses had become her norm over the last few months and she was anxious for a couple days to relax. Behind him, a flash of bright purple and boundless energy bounced in place: his younger sister, Shuri, unable to hide her excitement.

"Did you bring them?" She asked, eyes glittering with anticipation.

Natasha laughed and riffled through the worn duffle bag slung over her shoulder. She pulled out a pair of worn, but still intact Widow's Bites. "Fresh from the bottom of my closet. Hopefully you can have some fun with them?"

Shuri snatched them running off with a grin, heading down the stairs off to what Natasha assumed to be her lab.

"I must apologize," T'Challa said, amused. "Her eagerness for new technology often outweighs her princess duties."

"I don't mind." Natasha waved it off as she glanced to the hallway that led to the medical center. Her pace shifted towards it, towards him.

But T'Challa's next words stopped her cold.

"The White Wolf no longer resides within the palace."

She froze mid step. Her hand tightening around the strap of her bag, nails digging between the fibers. Her voice was low as she forced everything into it to keep it calm. "What do you mean?"

"Our doctors believe he is well enough to be on his own," the king said gently. "He has been given a parcel of land within our farming sector. It is peaceful there. Isolated."

"He's on his own?" Her voice cracked slightly, but her smile bloomed like sun through cloud. If he was well enough to live independently, that meant his healing was real. That meant the war inside him was quieting.

The king nodded and gestured toward the rolling hills in the distance. "One of our Dora Milaje waits to take you to him."

She didn't argue. She didn't care that a highly trained royal guard was being dispatched just for her. She could ahve navigated the Wakandan country side on her own, but she didn't waste a breath on pride. All that mattered was getting to him.

The transport glided over the land, through fields brushed with gold. Tall stalks of ripened wheat bent in the breeze, a sea of movement in the afternoon sun. As the transport slowed she spotted him. Standing alone in the field, his shoulders relaxed for the first time ever.

Her soldier. Her ghost of the past, finally finding the peace he deserved.

He looked good. Healthier than she had ever seen him. His skin was tanned, face no longer gaunt, and his eyes—when they found her—held little trace of the haunted emptiness she remembered. Still, his left shoulder was wrapped in a loose cloth, a makeshift cover where his metal arm once was. Wakanda hadn't given him a replacement yet. Perhaps as a precaution. Or perhaps, he hadn't wanted it.